Oh mothers tell your children, Not to do what I ha
by SageK
Summary: This story was written for raggedy edge on the Leverage Fic Excahnge!


Parker had never gotten a call from a bartender saying she had to come pick up a drunk friend. Probably because she'd never had a real friend to need picking up. So when she received a call from a raspy voiced man who identified himself as Mac, suggesting she come retrieve Eliot she was unsure what to do.

Rising from her bed, she looked down at the cell still gripped in her hand and flipped it open. Sophie probably had some experience with dragging Nate's drunk ass out of bars, but if Eliot wasn't upwardly mobile it would be better to bring along another guy. Nate was probably well on his way to his own alcoholic stupor, so he wouldn't be any help. Hardison it was then.

He picked up on the first ring. "Parker?"

She could hear the clacking of a keyboard in the background and decided it was good that he hadn't been asleep. "We need to go pick Eliot up?"

"What!" The hacker sounded startled. "Did he go off on a solo job or something? Get hurt?"

"He's drunk. Bartender called. I'll pick you up in 10 minutes. Then we'll get him."

"Okay."

Pulling on a pair of jeans, the thief smiled at the irony of retrieving their retrieval specialist.

LEVERAGE

"You sure this is the place?" Hardison asked, peering at the run down bar Parker pulled up in front of. The place was located in an industrial park that had probably been abandoned since the 80's. Hubcaps and license plates lined the outside of the ramshackle building, framing the dirty windows and dented door. Motorcycles and big trucks were haphazardly parked all around and it was easy to pick Eliot's out of the bunch as it was the only clean one. About a half dozen large, leather and denim clad men lay sprawled in an untidy heap not far from the door.

She nodded. "Fleur di lis," she confirmed, pointing at the battered sign posted by the door. "This place looks…dirty."

"Probably get Staph from the door knob," Hardison grumbled as they slid out of her car and carefully picked their way around the pile of insensate bikers.

Parker pushed open the door, admitting them to the hazy, somewhat smoky interior. Hardison gave a little cough and glanced pointedly at the No Smoking sign posted by the bar. "That's an interesting decoration," he snarked, though the comment was quiet enough not to draw the attention of the massive, tattooed bartender.

"Over there," Parker muttered, nodding to the form slumped in a chair by the jukebox. Eliot was staring moodily into a beer, but didn't seem to be totally tanked. His knuckles were bloodied and he looked like he'd been on the winning side of a fight. A general air of 'Don't fuck with me' seemed to emanate from him, which could explain why the tables surrounding him were empty, some of the chairs tipped over and the remained of the bars patrons were clustered on the other side of the room.

The bartender lumbered out from behind the bar and made his way over to Parker. "You here for him?" the man rumbled and Hardison took a nervous breath. The blond wasn't more than chest high on the behemoth but she just looked up at him blandly.

"Yeah," she said, then indicated the still motionless retrieval specialist with a nod of her head. "What'd he do?"

The man shrugged and dropped Eliot's cell phone and keys into Parker's hand. "Took out some trash," the man said. "Probably stepped over 'em on your way in. Took a good blow to the head. I called you while he was still dazed."

Parker nodded her thanks and turned toward Eliot, leading Hardison over as a new song started up on the jukebox. Before they reached the table, the retrieval specialist began singing along with the track, voice low and gravelly and tinged with sorrow.

There is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God I know I'm one

Stopping short, Parker tossed an elbow back into Hardison's stomach when the hacker ran into her. The pair of them froze, watching as their teammate continued to utter almost mournful words.

My mother was a tailor

She sewed my new blue jeans

My father was a gamblin' man

Down in New Orleans

Now the only thing a gambler needs

Is a suitcase and trunk

And the only time he's satisfied

Is when he's on a drunk

When the organ solo kicked in, Parker continued her approach, then slid into the extra chair at the specialists table. He still refused to look up, simply traced swirls in the condensation on his mug. The thief traded a concerned look with Hardison, who ignored the cautious looks of the other patrons gave them as he dragged another chair to the table.

Oh mother tell your children

Not to do what I have done

Spend your lives in sin and misery

In the House of the Rising Sun

Eliot didn't start singing again, just stared at the glass of alcohol.

Now wishing she had called Sophie, Parker hesitantly reached out and placed her pale, slim hand atop Eliot's broad, bloodied one. The juxtaposition was stark. Tanned, work roughened fingers with their blunt but clean nails under her soft, delicate, newly manicured digits.

Oh mother tell your children

Not to do what I have done

Spend your lives in sin and misery

In the House of the Rising Sun

"You okay, man?" Hardison asked the silent man.

Normally, Eliot wasn't exactly chatty. Occasionally Hardison counted the number of words the hitter uttered if the man was seeming particularly silent. Once Eliot had spoken only three words in their presence for an entire day, but he always acknowledged their presence, be it with a nod, a sigh or even a pissed off glare.

Well, I got one foot on the platform

The other foot on the train

I'm goin' back to New Orleans

To wear that ball and chain

Unsure, Parker awkwardly patted the hand below her own, fingertips sliding from battered knuckles to the smooth bracelets that adorned his wrist. On one pass, she paused, noting that the design was of a Fleur di lis. It was a surprisingly feminine choice of adornment for him. At the hesitation, Eliot moved, capturing her fingers in his large, warm palm.

Well, there is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God I know I'm one

As the notes of the song faded out, Eliot picked up the mug with his free hand and downed the contents. Letting it land on the table with a thunk, he looked up at the pair of them.

"Momma was from New Orleans," he randomly informed them and Hardison noted the slightly glazed look in the man's eyes, probably a combination of booze and the blow to the head. A minor concussion at most, the hacker decided, reflecting on the fact that in his previous criminal career he'd never had the need to know about such things.

Hand still clasped with Eliot's Parker questioned, "Is that why you're in this bar?"

The hitter nodded, the began to speak softly, "Every year I find a place like this, the name I mean. Come to remember. Been 25 years now."

"Every year?" Hardison asked. "There a lotta bars called Fleur di lis, or you go to the same place over and over, cause that would be pretty cool if you found 25.…"

Parker kicked his ankle to stop the babble, but Eliot actually snorted a bit of laughter. "More like 15 places. Not many bars'll let an 8 year old in."

"What happened?" the thief asked, unsure if it was the right thing to say, but without Sophie to handle the emotional stuff she was going to wing it. Despite Eliot's assertions that something was wrong with her, Parker was fairly sure he appreciated her directness.

"She want out for groceries and never made it home. Car accident," he sighed. "My sister was too little to understand. She cried for her for months…just wanted her momma back, ya know."

Neither Parker or Hardison had any real idea how to deal with this revelation, both having been raised in the foster system. Alec tried to think of something to say and was about to mutter some random platitude when Parker stood up.

Both he and Eliot watched as she quickly made her way over to the bar, conferred with Mac and returned with three large mugs of beer. Without a word she placed one in front of each of the men and then held out her own.

"Obviously, I didn't know your mom," she said slowly, clearly unsure how her words would be taken. "But I'm glad she was here, cause she had you. And I'm sorry you're sad she died. So…yeah."

Hardison picked up his own mug. "To Eliot's mom."

The hitter blinked, looked at each of them in turn and swallowed. After a moment, he picked up his beer and said, "Never had anyone to do this with before. I think Mama'd approve."

With that, he lightly tapped his Mug against each of theirs and they all took a drink. Hardison choked slightly and Parker had trouble swallowing the noxious concoction that was the house brew. Eliot actually cracked a smile at their reactions.

Pushing the mug away from her with a finger and looking at it with the distaste she usually reserved for rats and police, Parker said, "Maybe next year we can go to New Orleans."

Hardison nodded. "I'm sure we can find a couple of places called Fleur di lis there. Hey gotta be better than the Bar the Health Inspector Forgot that we're sitting now. I mean seriously, I think I just saw a cockroach carry off a bowl of nuts."

His voice had been a tad loud, as Mac looked over at him with a scowl but didn't approach. Eliot, however, just exhaled a small puff of breath and said, "I think…I think I'd like that."

Parker sat back in her chair and smiled, pleased that she hadn't made some social gaffe as she occasionally did. Slapping his hand lightly on the table, Hardison grinned, "Well, all right…What the…My hand is sticking to the table!"

He pulled his hand up and Parker and Eliot could hear the sound of it. He inspected his palm with a frown and said, "That is just nastiness."

Leaning over, Parker delicately sniffed at the goop coating his skin. "I think it's the beer. Congealed."

"Could be," Eliot agreed, the eyed Hardison with a slightly impish look. "Could be some blood…maybe a little vomit too."

Hardison rose quickly from the chair. "Bathroom! Where is it?"

Eliot cocked a brow at him. "You really wanna use a bathroom here?"

"He has a point," Parker said, craning her neck to scan the room. "Looks like it's over there, but I wouldn't bank on it being any cleaner than…well, I wouldn't bank on it being clean."

Still holding his hand out away from his body, Hardison began muttering about Hep C and other nasty things.

Taking pity on him, Eliot hauled himself to his feet and said, "I got bottled water and hand sanitizer in my truck."

Nodding to the bartender, he, somewhat unsteadily, led the other two outside. A few of the bikers were beginning to rouse and scampered off like startled deer when the retrieval specialist actually growled at them. The others, they stepped over and made it to Eliot's truck without incident.

Sticking out her hand, Parker demanded, "Keys."

It was a testament to the fact that he was both injured and a little tipsy that he placed the keys in her upturned palm. "You aren't drivin' my truck, Danica," he said with a more Eliot like scowl. "The water's behind the seat."

Giving him a concerned look, she said, "My name's Parker…How hard did those large men hit you in the head."

Hardison chuckled as he slid the keys from her hand and opened the door to retrieve the sanitizer. "Danica Patrick's a NASCAR driver, Parker. I think he was commenting on your need for speed."

"I don't get NASCAR," she said. "Why would you want to drive around and around in a circle and not go anywhere? If it's just a speed thing, go to Germany and drive the Autobahn."

The two men shrugged, and Alec said, "Don't watch it myself…but Danica's really hot."

Eliot nodded in agreement and leaned slightly against the side of his truck. "I don't really want to leave my truck here over night, so…."

"Hardison can bring it to work tomorrow," Parker said, knowing well enough not to let the two men try and work things out on their own. They were great guys, but sometimes, when they pooled their considerable smarts and survival instincts, the results were very bad. "I'm taking you home."

There was the expected fuss, but soon Eliot was following Parker to her car. As they slid in, he looked over at her and said, "Parker…Thanks."

She looked back at him, rumpled from the fight and tired from the combination of the hour and alchohol in his system and though he looked almost vulnerable. And Eliot Spencer did not do vulnerable. Meeting his eyes as they caught a shaft of moonlight, she smiled softly and said, "What are friends for."


End file.
